Fallen Heroes
by mightygitis
Summary: Filling in the gaps up to Five Years Gone this story takes place in the first ALTERED timeline. Can our heroes stay heroes, even though they failed to stop the bomb?


Title: Fallen Heroes  
Author: Mighty Lauren

PROLOGUE

What makes a hero? Is it the act of saving a life? Perhaps it takes more than that. A dozen lives?

Can someone be a hero without saving any? A hero born of good intentions. And is a hero no longer a hero should he falter?

Then again, perhaps an accomplished goal doesn't necessarily make a hero. Maybe it is the journey one takes to reach said goal. A metamorphosis drawing from the dedicated struggle a hero endures through out their quests. So that, even after failure, the hero can keep fighting for the greater good.

That is what makes a hero! A hero never gives up, even when it looks like all hope has gone.

But in a future where things have not gone as they planned, how many of our heroes will stand and fight?

CHAPTER 1: After the Bomb

The world swirled as Peter Petrelli started to regain consciousness, sprawled spread eagle on the asphalt. What was going on?

Eyes still closed, peter lifted a hand gingerly to his face. He could feel the blood, so warm it was almost unbearable. Every inch of his body seemed to ache, but the pain in his head crippled him.

Peter could hardly move, too weak to lift his own eyelids.

Blindly, Peter took in as much as he could of his surroundings. The street below him was hot, and beneath the fingertips on his lowered hand, he could feel a deep fissure.

What was going on?

Breath quickening, he lifted his eyelids slightly. Now Peter could see that the street he was lying in the middle of had been shattered. Deep gashes radiated outward from the spot on which he rested.

How had he gotten here?

Peter couldn't remember. Could this be another dream? He didn't think so. With great effort owing to the pain that plagued him, he sat up and finally opened his eyes fully.

A bolt of pure shock zoomed up Peter's spine.

Nothing much remained standing for about half a mile around him. The buildings seemed to have been disintegrated, and ash fell eerily from the sky. Dark, demented snowfall.

As the realization dawned in the back of Peter's shell-shocked mind, Peter truly began to panic.

The bomb had gone off. They had failed. He looked down at his clothing. His thick, black wool coat seemed untouched, as did his jeans and shirt.

Surely his clothing would have been destroyed if he had been the bomb. Then again, Peter had seen clothing affected by powers. His hand flew back up to the blood on his face.

Now he understood the severity of the cut that ran diagonally from above his right eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, and down the left cheek.

Why wasn't it healing? He summoned an image of his niece, Claire. This did nothing. He tried other powers.

Nothing.

Peter was powerless.

The idea staggered him, he slowly got to his feet, eyes wide and surprised. He had been used to his abilities, it was like waking up and forgetting how to breath.

Suddenly Peter knew he needed to move, walking quickly from where he stood.

Yes, he realized that he'd been lying at the epicenter of the explosion. The radial pattern of destruction was apparent in the way the road had cracked.

Peter began walking forward faster, down the faint outline of the street in the increasing blanket of ash. After what must have been a dozen blocks, he finally began seeing solid wreckage.

He passed the smoldering remains of a car, toppled upside down. It was clear from how the roof of the frame was bent that it must have initially hit with great speed.

Peter paused, marveling at how incredible the blast must have been.

Then he wondered who'd been in the car. Or the buildings that had been turned to cinder.

All those people.

Peter needed to get out of the city as quickly and as quietly as possible. He could hear the steady beating of helicopters in the distance.

But more importantly, he needed to get to cover.

----

A muscle in the angular face that belonged to Peter's older brother, Nathan Petrelli, twitched as he clenched his jaw. He had been holed up in his office since they'd arrived the previous day. The day he had won the election.

Linderman had to have interfered. He had been behind, very behind, in the polls. One of Linderman's freaks must have fixed it.

Nathan swallowed the pang of guilt. He couldn't let himself forget that he, too, was a "freak". As was his brother, whom had requested that Nathan and his family remain at their summer home in the Hamptons, just to be safe.

Despite their confidence that they could avert the disaster, and hopefully destroy Sylar in the process, Hiro and Peter thought it would be best if the congressman was not in Manhattan.

Nathan glanced at his watch, and then stared out the window. Everything beyond seemed to be normal. What had he expected?

Perhaps a mushroom cloud blossoming on the horizon. Nathan sighed, it was silly. Even if there was one, it wouldn't be seen from here.

Someone rapped on his door.

"Yes?"

For a second no one answered, then the clear strong voice of his senior security officer rang out. "Sir, your wife requests you in the drawing room. There's something you need to see."

Nathan could tell just by his tone, something horrible had happened.

They failed, he thought, rushing up the hall to a flight of stairs. Leaping down them two at a time, he pulled out his cell phone and attempted to call his brother.

"All circuits are currently busy..."

Heidi Petrelli was crying in the drawing room, her hand covering her mouth. On the screen a startling video that looked to have been taken from a camera phone. It showed the pristine Manhattan skyline, then a moment later the explosion rippled out from the interior of the island. The phone view shook and was redirected towards the enormous column of black smoke and ash towering now over everything.

Nathan thought of the painting on Isaac Mendez's floor. They'd had so much warning. They'd known for weeks, and still they couldn't stop it. Heidi was sobbing even harder now. She rose to face him.

This felt odd, as for the majority of the past six months she'd been confined to a wheelchair.

"Your mother..."

"Is in Paris, safe and sound."

"And Peter?"

Nathan tried again to swallow the l ump in his throat. "Pete may have just destroyed half of New York."

There was a stunned pause after these words, in which they stared at one another.

"Heid, we need to talk," Nathan said, crossing the room to a cabinet. He opened it to reveal a bottle of scotch, and some glasses.

All of the guards seemed to vanish after his words. The final one, a bald black man, nodded to Nathan before shutting and locking the main French doors.

His wife was regarding him with a curious look. She'd stopped crying.

Nathan was grateful for this moment of silence to string together his thoughts. He poured himself a drink, and then sank onto one of the couches.

"There've been a couple things I've kept in the dark this past month," he began, taking a long sip. "Like the fact that I can fly."

There was a ringing silence, and when Heidi spoke again her voice seemed oddly formal and stiff. "I had wondered why the only memory I had of our car crash involved you hundreds of feet above the road."

Nathan drank again, frowning. "That was when I first realized what I could do. Well before I could control it," he replied. "I'm much better at it now."

Heidi glanced at the television, which was now showing footage of people swarming across the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Are there others with abilities?"

Nathan laughed. "Too many to count. Mr. Linderman has a healing touch, that's why you can walk again. "I've met men who could paint the future, and even bend time."

"What about your brother? What does he do?" She wasn't looking at Nathan, but staring at her wheelchair, parked in the corner. The idea that Linderman, a man she loathed, had been the one to restore her.

Nathan had finished his drink now, sitting the empty glass on the end table.

"Peter is a much more complicated situation," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "I've seen him fly, turn invisible, even come back from death." He threw a wry look at the television.

"But you think Peter did this," she asked, pointing at it. "You said it yourself, he loves this city, why would he want to cause such destruction?"

Nathan stood so suddenly, she jumped. "You misunderstand me, Pete wouldn't have done it intentionally," he said. "He's not good at control yet, he-"

There were knocks on the door, the head guard was back, he poked his shiny head in the door. "Sir, you have a couple calls."

Nathan let out a sigh, looking to his wife. He liked how tall she was now, they could meet eyes more naturally.

"It's alright, go. I'm sure you'll have a lot to address."

He stepped forward, hugging her for the briefest of moments.

"It's going to be alright, in time," he said, turning to leave. "I mean, it's not the end of the world."

---

Mohinder Suresh had hardly moved from the spot he'd been in when he felt his apartment building shudder an hour or two before. He'd gotten up once to turn on the radio and find a suitable station.

He couldn't bear to turn on the television and see the damage. He knew already from the reports coming in over the crackly radio waves that the damage must be terrible.

His apartment had only been cleaned up slightly since the incident during which Sylar had slain Peter Petrelli. The remnants of a bulletin board lay slumped up against the wall, pins and yarn dangling from it.

Mohinder was not surprised that a cause for the explosion had yet to be reported. In fact, aside from repeating the fact that an explosion had occurred, the news had been sparse.

Someone pounded forcefully on his door. "Suresh, you in there?"

Mohinder felt like he was walking through water, h is movements slow and dazed. Finally reaching the door, he swung it open to find the man he knew only as Thompson, as well as young a young woman he had never met.

"Thought you might have come back here after you fled the lab," Thompson said, marching past Mohinder and into the apartment. "I take it you heard?"

Mohinder responded by walking across to the radio and turning it up.

"Candice, this is Dr. Suresh."

The girl smiled and Mohinder automatically decided that he hated her. How could she be smiling like that after what had happened?

"I've heard some great things about your work," she said, still smiling sycophantically. She shoved her hand out as if to shake his.

Mohinder looked at her hand, then at her. "Have you?" He walked back to his chair and sank into it.

"You cured Molly when no one else could," she said. "Impressive."

Mohinder shifted. He didn't want to talk about Molly Walker.

"Do they know who did it?" Mohinder asked. "The bomb."

"I don't have a definitive answer for that just yet." Thompson looked surprised at the icy greeting they were receiving.

Candice stepped forward, waggling her hips with each stride. "I read your father's book. Twice actually." She walked to the radio and clicked it off. "A good read, too bad I wasn't in there anywhere."

Mohinder wasn't sure what to make of this, his eyes darted from her back to Thompson.

"Candice has quite an unusual ability," he said. "One your father never foresaw, it's come in quite handy."

Mohinder stood. "Have you really come here today, of all days, to show me a new power?" He switched the radio back on defiantly, tinny and panicked voices buzzed through it once more. "Unless she has the power to undo that, I'm not interested."

The room seemed to shudder for a moment, and then shifted. The map righted itself, everything morphed back to how it had been a few days before.

"Now look what you've done," Thompson said, shaking his head. "You've got her showing off."

Mohinder turned to look at Candice, but instead found himself looking at his father, who smiled at him in a creepy way.

"Ah, Candice Wilmer, you were on my father's original list. Altering perceptions is a fine ability. I have a whole file on it." Mohinder was pleased to see the smile finally slide off of her face as the room blinked back into reality.

"Touchy," she groaned, falling back behind Thompson, who decided they'd better get to the point.

"Truth is, we didn't come here to talk about Candice. We came because Congressman Petrelli needs a word with you, immediately," he explained.

"What business do you have with Nathan?"

Thompson ignored this, he opened the front door and stepped back, waiting. Mohinder sighed, and begrudgingly went with them.

Along the very edge of what the news reporters were now calling the "destruction zone" people flooded out onto the Brooklyn Bridge to escape, and slowing rescue teams significantly. Several ambulances could be seen slowly wending their way through the crowds of people.

Deeper into the island you could see people carrying others out. Mothers, bleeding profusely, hauling out their injured children. Business men wrenching victims out of wrecked cars.

---

Amongst this chaos, Hiro Nakamura knelt beside his best friend. Ando was hurt worse than either of them wanted to admit.

Though they'd gotten a good distance from the blast center, Ando had been impaled by many shards of metallic shrapnel, and had been bleeding profusely for several blocks.

"Hiro, promise me something." Ando's breath was ragged, and Hiro could tell it was taking great effort for him to speak.

"Later, save your strength."

Ando laughed, and then coughed. His lips were now stained with blood.

"We both know there is no later for me." Hiro made a sharp motion as if to shake off the words. "It's okay, I knew it was coming. So did you. And now you will do me one last favor, because you don't have a choice."

Hiro nodded, tears welling in his eyes behind his glasses. One lens was missing, and the other was cracked down the center.

"You will not give up, Hiro. You are still destined to be a hero. And I think the world is going to need a lot of heroes now."

Hiro shook his head. "But you are a hero, too."

Ando smiled, he seemed calm, almost ready. And when he opened his mouth, he spoke in Japanese.

"I am glad I came on this mission. To die trying to save the world is an honor. Thank you, for that."

Hiro laughed through his tears, and also replied in Japanese. "I'll miss you, friend."

"Don't. I'll be around keeping an eye on things."

With these words, Ando's eyelids drooped, and all the life went out of him.

How could this be? In such a short period of time Hiro had lost so many. Isaac, Charlie, and now Ando. Maybe even Peter.

He had left Japan to save people, and yet everywhere he went he found destruction and death. How had they failed?

For a fleeting moment the thought of going back and changing places with Ando. Then Charlie surfaced in his mind. Her smile, just before he popped back to the present and failed.

Maybe you really couldn't change the past.

-----

With a few well placed kicks, Peter was able to break down the doors to the Deveaux building. The power was out, and the floor was littered with cement shaken from the walls and ceiling by the blast. Peter walked past the bank of elevators to the stairwell beyond.

He felt like he was climbing the stairs forever. Up all the way to the roof.

Claude's pigeons had gone, the coop seemed beaten and battered. The bottom dropped out of Peter's stomach as he approached the brick overhang, getting his first glimpse of the city in shambles.

As far as his vision reached, fires burned in toppled buildings. The skyline, once so familiar, seemed alien.

"No!" he shouted. "NOOOO!" He was angry now. This was not how it should have turned out. How had he let it happen? Why hadn't he just gone away?

He kicked the metallic side of the coop testily. Why couldn't he remember? He sank to his knees, covering his bloody face with his hands.

He was a murderer. He'd lost control and destroyed a lot of lives.

He was brought back from his mental self-destruction by the soft jangling of the cell phone in his breast pocket.

Surprised, he didn't even look to see who it was before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Peter? You're alive..."

Peter stood, recognizing the voice instantly. "Nathan, it was me. I can't remember how it happened, it's all so... blurry."

"Where are you?" Nathan sounded annoyed, impatient.

"The roof of Charles Deveaux's building. I came to survey the damage. It's horrible. So many people must have died." Peter walked around the coop, tossing his hair nervously.

The cut on his face stung ominously.

"Nearly a million, I expect," Nathan replied. "But don't worry about that now. I trust you aren't hurt, so stay invisible -"

"My powers are gone, Nathan." He practically shouted this, not wanting his brother to continue any farther. "There's a pretty sizeable gash on my forehead and I can't heal it."

"The explosion must have drained your energy," Nathan said. "I wasn't sure if you'd survive it at all. The most important thing right now is going to be getting you our of the city, and keeping your appearance as another victim in a sea of victims."

Peter had stopped pacing. He gingerly touched the cut on his face, it was beginning to scab over, the edges caked with dry blood.

"Pete, I need you to listen to me very carefully." His voice seemed strained, but insistent. "You must stay out of sight until you get very close to where the paramedics are, and then you lay down in the street. Tell them something cut you during the explosion and you must have been knocked out."

Shocked, Peter only asked the next question by reflex. "And when they ask why I was there?"

"You were coming to visit your girlfriend, Simone, who most unfortunately was murdered by the same man who destroyed the city."

For a single irrational moment, Peter almost replied: 'but why would Isaac explode'.

"So," Peter began, "we're going to pin it all on Sylar."

"He certainly deserves it more than you."

Peter wanted to ask his brother what he was supposed to do then. How was he supposed to live after this? But instead he asked how close he was to the perimeter of the damage.

"Leave the building and head North, they're setting up triage on the Columbia Campus," Nathan answered. "Give them this number as your emergency contact number."

-----

Hiro had expected more difficulty getting out of the city. He'd left Ando's body only after the forceful insistence of a police officer.

The chaos was staggering. The streets an ocean of people dispersing. He had no idea where hew as going. Glasses gone, he was finding it difficult to read the signs as he journeyed deeper into Queens.

It wasn't until another officer stopped him to ask why he was carrying a sword, that Hiro started to actually consider his circumstances.

"It's my most prized possession, and the only thing I could save," Hiro said, he was amazed at how these words rolled out of his mouth with such little thought. He hadn't considered how he must look.

The cop glanced from Hiro to the throngs of people, and nodded. He didn't stop Hiro when he turned to walk away.

Where was he going?

He didn't know anyone in New York, except Peter. He needed somewhere familiar. Safe.

He screwed up his face, and in a flash Hiro went from the crowded street to a much calmer one.

He was standing in front of the Burnt Toast Cafe. He took a deep breath, and entered.

A tin bell jingled as the door swung shut behind him. He sat in the same booth along the wall that he and Ando had sat in on their first visit.

Hiro un-strapped his sword, sitting it under the table leaning against the bench and his leg.

He couldn't believe himself. People were hurting and dying, and he was going to have a snack.

Then again, what was there to do? Hadn't he established yet that he couldn't change anything?

"Can I get you anything to drink, dear?" The waitress was plump, and middle aged, with a knot of dull brown hair sitting lopsidedly on top of her head.

She held out a menu, but he waved it away.

"A glass of milk, and the chocolate chip waffles, please."

Hiro was so lost in his own mind, he didn't notice that no one in the diner seemed to have heard the news of New York's fate.

He knew he'd have to go back, but right now Hiro could just use a break.

"Dad, where are we going?"

Mr. Bennet didn't answer at first, just kept driving. He'd hardly spoken since they'd departed from Newark Airport, where they had rented the red SUV they were driving. They'd immediately headed south, and since had put as much distance between themselves and the city.

"Dad, could you at least say something," Claire pleaded.

"What would you like me to say?" He didn't sound angry. He sounded empty, and he was checking the rear view mirror far more often than she felt was necessary.

Claire straightened her seatbelt across her right shoulder. She was still dressed in clothing given to her by her grandmother.

"You could tell me what we're going to do now," she suggested.

"I don't know, exactly, he said, glancing in the mirror again.

"What about Peter? Or my biodad?"

"If Peter survived, he knows how to reach me." He made no answer to the other question.

Claire's stomach flip-flopped in her stomach. If he survived...

The idea that Peter could be dead hadn't occurred to her. She was so accustomed to the idea that her uncle could do what she could, that she believed him to be made of tougher stuff.

Then she thought about what would happen if paramedics found him dead, with something puncturing the connection between his brain and the rest of his body. What if no one knew to remove the offending shrapnel to revive him?

Would Peter end up waking up on a morgue table, as she had in the past?

"Are you sure we should have just run away like this?" she asked. "I was staying with the Petrellis, I should have at least let them know. They'll think I'm hurt."

Bennet coughed. "I'm hoping they will think you are dead."

There was an icy silence that followed this pronouncement. Bennet chanced a look at his daughter, she had her arms crossed and was gazing out the window with a look of mingled disappointment and annoyance.

The car made a doleful dinging noise, and the gas light clicked on.

"Guess it was about time for a stop," he said, moving over a lane. "Gas, bathroom, maybe a snack."

Although her stomach had been growling for about an hour now, Claire didn't say anything. Mr. Bennet exited the highway.

They drove into an enormous gas station, pulling up to a pump near the door to the building.

"Do you want anything?" Bennet asked, getting out of the car.

"I'll come in after I go to the bathroom." She pointed to the restroom sign that pointed around the corner of the building.

He nodded, trotting inside the station. Claire increased her pace.

There had to be a payphone nearby, and as she rounded the corner her heart jumped. There was one just on the other side of the door leading to the lady's room.

Fumbling in her pocket for quarters, she looked nervously over her shoulder. How long did she have?

Claire dropped four quarters in the machine and tapped in Peter's cell phone number.

"Hello?" Peter sounded unsure, and there was a great deal of background noise.

"You're okay," she said, her stomach unclenching. "I can't talk long, my dad will wonder."

"You're with Nathan?" He sounded surprised.

"No, no, no. My adoptive dad, the one who raised me. He got me out of the city okay. I'm not sure where we are going."

"Probably just away, can't blame him," he said. "I'm glad you called. It's good to know you 're safe."

"And you," she replied. "I'll call you next chance I have. Where are you that is so loud?"

"An outdoor hospital of sorts. I'm about to get stitched up," he answered. "I'll have to explain later. I'm fine." He sounded strained. But she could tell he was relieved to hear from her.

"Okay, don't tell my other dad you've talked to me. Please."

"I think that might be a good idea, for the moment."

----

For the first time since Peter had been jostled onto an uncomfortable folding chair by a nurse, he couldn't help but feel relieved.

Nathan was alive. Claire was alive.

These thoughts were tiny glimmers of hope on a dismal horizon. Nurses bustled up and down the row of chairs. They were picking out the injuries that looked worse to treat first.

One of the male nurses strolled by his section. Peter surveyed those around him. The man on his left h ad a burn on his arm. The woman to his right's ankle looked swollen, as did her elbow.

The man stopped in front of Peter though, his eyes darting up and down the cut.

"You there, let's get that cut cleaned," he said.

Peter went with him in silence to an area that was cordoned off from the grass.

"Do you remember what happened?" The man asked. Peter's stomach lurched. "To give you this cut?"

Shaking his head, Peter replied with: "No, not really."

"Been hearing that a lot lately." He began mopping up Peter's face, and discarding gauze stained with blood into a red bag. "Name's Ben, you?"

"Peter."

Ben seemed to realize Peter's anguish, and didn't speak for a while. Soon he was pouring something that stung into the wound.

"Alright, now the stitches, let me know if I'm hurting you."

Every stitch hurt, but Peter never said as much. In a way he felt he deserved it. The pain was rising excruciatingly. Ben still didn't speak, concentrating on every biting stitch.

"All sewn up, and if you give me a moment I'll go find something to cover it that won't impede your vision," he said. Then turned and walked away.

"Couldn't you have healed that yourself, mate?" Came a voice in Peter's ear.

Peter's head swung around but he saw no one. He'd expected that.

"You can't see me?" Came the voice again, and it sounded amused.

"My powers are gone," Peter said. "Where are you?"

Suddenly Claude appeared at Peter's left shoulder.

"Thought I'd pop in and see how the human bomb was surviving," Claude said.

Ben was back, and he looked back and forth, right through the pair of them.

"Peter?" The nurse was searching through the crowds now.

"Did you do that, or did I?" Peter whispered.

"I did, thought it'd be easier to sneak away," Claude said. "Unless of course you wanted to stick around here."

Peter rose. He was so surprised to see Claude and he wasn't keen to let him walk away.

"That's the spirit!" Claude exclaimed. They began shuffling carefully through the crowd, a few people they bumped into looked around, confused.

"Why'd you come back?" Peter asked.

"Didn't actually go very far," Claude said. "Been nosing around a bit, and wait till you hear some of the dirt I've dug up."

---

Nathan sat in his office again, phone pressed to his ear.

"No, no word yet," he was saying. "I'm meeting with Chandra Suresh's son now. Yes, I understand mother."

He hung up the receiver, face sour. Everything was happening so fast. The president had spoken, and a state of emergency declared. And although his term hadn't officially began, Nathan knew he'd be expected to make public statements.

He jabbed a button on his phone. "Send in the good doctor."

The door swung open, and Mohinder stepped in. He looked disheveled and jumpy.

Nathan rose, his face taught, mirroring the concern that shown through his eyes.

"I'm sorry we must meet again under such unfortunate circumstances," he said, walking around the desk and holding out his hand.

"As am I," Mohinder said, shaking Nathan's hand.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you hear," Nathan drove on. "The truth is, the world needs you and your knowledge."

"My knowledge?"

"You and your father worked very closely with this Sy-lar."

Mohinder's blood turned to ice at the sound of the name. It struck him how odd it sounded to hear someone read it off as if for the first time.

"Sylar is a very dangerous individual," he said, simply.

"I'm not surprised to hear you say that, as intelligence seems to think he was the cause of this explosion," Nathan explained. "Can you imagine that, and exploding man?"

"Your brother thought it was supposed to be him," Mohinder said.

"Perhaps if he hadn't passed-" Nathan broke off. "I've been meaning to thank you for bringing us his body..."

Mohinder realized now that he shouldn't have mentioned Nathan's brother. "Of course, he deserved better than being left behind. He saved me."

"Peter saved a lot of lives, a true hero," Nathan replied. "And though Sylar got the better of him, we can't let his death, the destruction of millions of lives, be in vain."

Dr. Suresh knew this was true. They had to do something. "How can I help?"

"We aren't going to be able to hid the nature of this explosion for long, the world will soon bear witness that people like me exist: evolved humans, if you will." Nathan was pacing now. "Your research would be a step towards understanding it. We'll set you up in a proper lab, you'll get a staff, anything you need to prevent something like this from ever happening again. To find a cure."

"I don't even know if there can be a cure," Mohinder said. "And most of my findings were destroyed with my computer."

"We have a backup of your hard drive from a week or so ago, and we took the liberty and got some samples off of my brother." Nathan said, walking back to his seat behind the desk.

Mohinder looked like he wanted to ask more about this, but seemed to think better of it.

"I need to know we can count on you," Nathan said. "Can we?"

---

Hiro was half way through his waffle when a man sitting at the bar requested they change the TV to a news channel.

The waitresses were now gathered beneath it, listening. He turned, watching over his shoulder. It was an aerial view of Manhattan, nearly half of it seemed to have been damaged. The was an ashy haze around the whole island.

What was he doing, sitting around here? He needed to get back to New York, but where?

He stood, staring at the television. Isaac's loft on Reed St. didn't seem to be in the area they were counting as part of the "disaster zone". He reached down, seizing his sword and strapping it back on. He dropped a twenty on the table and with a grimace vanished.

The painter's body seemed to have finally been removed, giving Hiro a clear view of the explosion mural on the floor.

How many times had they walked over it, trying to plan a way out?

Hiro walked slowly around the room looking at the paintings he hadn't seen before.

There was one of a girl, lying limp in a large black mans hands. And one showing himself talking to Peter Petrelli.

And then a voice came from the depths of the loft, causing Hiro to start.

"I knew you'd come back here."

Hiro spun around, looking at all angles of the room. And standing behind a painting in the corner of a crowd of women wearing identical clothing, was Sylar.

He flicked his fingers and the painting soared out of his way, and he walked towards Hiro with a look of serious intentions.

"You. What are you doing here?"

Sylar laughed. "Looking for you of course," he replied. "Knew you'd pop in just in time for dinner." Sylar made a snapping motion with his jaw that turned Hiro's stomach to lead.

"You have to stop killing. Why can't you just stop?"

Sylar was laughing even harder and more maniacally. "Because I don't want to. And I don't have to."

"Yes, you do."

Hiro acted so suddenly he was almost as surprised as Sylar, who didn't even have time to react with any of his powers.

Hiro had lunged forward, piercing Sylar through the chest with Kensei's sword. Surprised at himself, Hiro let go, leaving the sword through the torso.

Sylar was moaning in pain, he pulled the sword out, dropping it to the ground with a metallic clang. He staggered sideways, gripping a table to stay upright.

"A couple days ago, maybe that would have worked," Sylar said. He was smiling broadly now, he placed his left hand overtop of the wound and waited. After a long moment, Hiro was surprised to see the wound was healing. "But I've learned a new trick since then."


End file.
